Five Times
by AliuIce0814
Summary: ...Sherlock woke John, and one time John woke Sherlock. Covers both seasons. Spoilers for the Fall.
1. One: Afghanistan

Gunfire rattled over John's head. He was used to the sound by now—some primitive part of him even enjoyed the thrill it sent running through his veins. War was hell. Of course it was, but maybe if all those civvies who wrote about it without knowing it came here, they would feel the same rush and understand that hell's burn felt better than any high could.

"Watson!" a voice to John's right bellowed. John wriggled around to see one of the boys fresh from London beaming at him. "Beautiful day, ain't it? I'm workin' on m' suntan m'self. Think m' girlfriend will like it?"

"Only if she gets to see it! Keep your head—"

John's warning came too late. The boy's head jerked back suddenly in an explosion of blood and brains. With a cry, John flung himself towards him, even though he knew it was too late. In the brief moment when his body was suspended in the air above the safety zone, John's left shoulder exploded. Yelling, he slammed into the hot desert sand as something scalding and scarlet—_blood_, John thought in a daze, _Christ, I'm bleeding_—poured down his arm. _God, no!_

The men who had shot John were yelling in Arabic, what, he couldn't tell, and bullets zipped over John's head. _No_—John reached for his gun and then vomited when the pain in his shoulder seared down his body to his right leg. The boy's gun was closer to him than his own gun, if only he could grab it—bile in his mouth, blood in the sand, the boy's mouth forever silently screaming—_reach, dammit, reach_!

Gun. _Yes_. John had it. The trigger—God, his arm—_pull the damn trigger_—explosion. Shrieks. God. Shrieks. Curses in Arabic. Trigger—squeeze.

Shoulder.

_God._

Two bodies beside the British boy now. Brown-faced. Dead. John's bullets in them.

_God, shoulder, God—_

A figure appeared over John's head. There was a rifle pointed at his forehead. A flash of light—a howl—

_Please, God, don't let me die!_

* * *

><p><strong>Slam.<strong>

"God!"

John reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. Where was it? Where was it?

"John!"

The British baritone knew his name. John gasped for air as he squinted through the searing sunlight at the person bending over him. Pale…dark-haired…coat collar flipped up…

Then the desert dissolved, the pain in John's shoulder receded to a dull throb, and John stared wildly into the face of his new flatmate. "Sher—Sherlock?"

The consulting detective frowned at him. "You're gulping air. Stop it. You won't calm down until you take slow, deep breaths."

Instantly, John shook his head. "Fine," he tried to say. "I'm fine," but he still smelled fire and sand. _If I breathe any deeper, then I will cry, and I will not let that happen in front of Sherlock!_

"Your left hand is trembling," Sherlock observed. "You're holding the same shoulder stiffly. While you were asleep, you were reaching your right hand down to your hip where you would wear a holster. You were yelling, not words, just sound. That means you were dreaming-"

"I know what I was dreaming, Sherlock!" John snapped. Sherlock paused mid-sentence. Slowly, he closed his mouth and backed out of John's bedroom. As soon as the door swung shut, John rolled onto his stomach and buried the sting of tears in his pillow.

When John finally stumbled into the sitting room, sweaty and shaking, he found a cup of tea sitting by his favorite armchair. He eyed Sherlock curiously before he took a sip. The warm liquid relaxed the tense muscles around John's throat enough for him to croak, "Thank you."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed from the couch. John took the sound to mean 'you're welcome,' although only Sherlock could communicate it with such disinterest. John opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock held up a hand. "Wait." His brow furrowed while he scrolled through the texts on his phone. Then, all of a sudden, a grin broke over his face. "Get up, John! Lestrade wants us. A pair of schoolchildren has been murdered."

"And this is a good thing?" John mumbled, more to himself than to Sherlock, who was already halfway out the door. "Did you say Lestrade wants 'us'? Me as well?"

"Yes! Come on, John!" Sherlock called from the door.

Quickly, John set his teacup on the arm of the chair and bounded down the stairs. Only wisps of Afghanistan followed him out of 221B Baker Street. By the time he and Sherlock reached the crime scene, John's wounded shoulder didn't even twinge.


	2. Two: The School

"Sherlock—"

John pounded through the corridors of the empty school in search of his new flatmate. The man was a genius—in a few seconds, he could solve almost an entire crime scene-but John's battle-honed senses told him that Sherlock was in dire trouble.

Instead of giving up after finding empty room after empty room, John only ran faster. Sherlock had been right earlier. John's limp was psychosomatic; his leg didn't twinge at all as he slammed open the door to the next room.

"Empty. Damn you, Sherlock—"

-and then John looked through the window into the building opposite and felt his heart stop.

Sherlock stood across from the cabbie who had murdered all those people. The detective held the same pill that had killed them all directly over his own mouth.

"Sherlock!"

Instantly, John pulled out his gun and aimed. His body unconsciously shifted into the familiar position, feet apart, shoulders back, but even as John's bullet soared through the open window to hit its mark, Sherlock swallowed convulsively. "No—" –too late, John had been too late again, just like he had been in Afghanistan—"No, Sherlock—" –and another man would die because John had spoken too late—

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

><p>John was on his feet before his mind startled awake. He swayed for a moment, stunned, before he slowly sank to his knees beside his bed. <em>221B Baker Street. I'm here. I made the shot. Sherlock's—<em>

"John?"

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John glanced up…and immediately wished he hadn't. "Sherlock," he ground out, "would you please put on clothes?"

"I'm not seeing anyone today. It doesn't matter."

"I can see you! It matters to me!"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. John kept his eyes fixed on his bedspread while Sherlock wound the sheet he had dragged up to John's room around himself. Even once Sherlock looked halfway decent, John averted his eyes and pulled himself awkwardly back onto his bed. Although scraps of the dream-memory kept his mind whirling, John's body felt exhausted. Slowly, his eyes drifted closed. He had almost lost consciousness again when Sherlock spoke. "You said my name several times while you were asleep. Actually, you screamed it one of those times. Your hands shot up as if you were unlatching a window, and then you reached for where you usually keep your gun." John could picture Sherlock's frown. "John, why would you remember the cabbie while you were asleep? Why did you yell my name?"

_Because you almost died, you idiot! Because I thought I hadn't pulled the trigger fast enough! Because you're a brilliant, amazing, genius of a flatmate, and I didn't want you to die!_

_I can't let anyone die on my account again.  
><em>

Instead of voicing his thoughts, John threw an arm over his eyes to block out the light from the hallway. "Go away, Sherlock. I'm trying to sleep," he grumbled.

To John's surprise, Sherlock left. The doctor let his eyelids flutter open so he could watch the last of Sherlock's ridiculous sheet flicker out of view. Then, with the realization that Sherlock was alive and annoying as ever firm in his head, John rolled over and fell back asleep.


	3. Three: The Pool

John had to say the words the real Moriarty fed him. He had to say the words to Sherlock. He had to claim to be Moriarty.

That didn't mean he had to put any effort into it. As Sherlock stared at him in shock—_by God, he is human!—_John pulled his jacket open to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. Instantly, a laser trained on his chest. John only had his military training to thank for keeping his calm façade up.

_Please, God_, he thought again. _Don't let me die._

By the time John's mind snapped back to attention, Sherlock had goaded Moriarty out of his hiding place. "Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathed. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Moriarty smiled. John couldn't stop himself from shooting him an incredulous look. The laser beam on John's chest didn't keep him from curling his hands into fists as Moriarty continued, "No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will."

_Click._ John stood straight upright at the sound of Sherlock's gun. "I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way!"

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment—"

"Yes, you did. "

Moriarty shrugged with a flash of a grin. "Yeah, okay, I did, but the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!"

Something about Moriarty's sing-song tone shoved John over the edge. Fuck that he was cocooned in explosives. What did he do in Afghanistan? He made the most of bad situations. He'd do the same damn thing now.

"People have died."

"That's what people DO!"

John's fists grew tight enough that his knuckles turned white. _Any minute now and you can move_, he told himself. _Any minute…_

Sherlock's baritone dropped to a dangerous rumble. "I will stop you."

"No, you won't."

To John's surprise, instead of countering Moriarty, Sherlock addressed his flatmate. "You all right?"

John kept his head down as Moriarty walked towards him. "You can talk, Johnny boy! Go ahead!" Reluctantly, John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze and nodded once. _You can nearly read minds, Sherlock. Time to read mine. Work with me!_

Sherlock's face hardened. "Take it," he said, proferring the memory stick to Moriarty. When Moriarty made a curious noise, John cursed inwardly. _No, you idiot, don't give him the—oh! Oh, you brilliant man, Sherlock, yes!_

"The missile plan? Bo-ring!" Moriarty kissed the stick and tossed it away. "I could have got them anywhere—"

_NOW!_ John launched at Moriarty with a cry. "Sherlock, run!"

Although Moriarty choked in surprise when John pulled him into a headlock, the strangled noise morphed quickly into laughter. "Oh! Good. Very good!"

With a growl, John tightened his grip. "Just like that, Mr. Moriarty. Pull that trigger, and we both go—"

A click. A bang.

_White light! White light!_

_ "No!"  
><em>

* * *

><p>"John! Wake up. Wake up now!"<p>

When John jerked upright, Sherlock barely pulled his face away in time to avoid a head-on collision. John stared at him blankly for a minute while gulped in air. Then he grabbed his flatmate by the lapels. "Why the hell didn't you run when I told you to, Sherlock? Why the hell didn't you run?"

Sherlock blinked. "At the pool."

"Yes, at the pool! I grabbed Moriarty for you! That was your chance. Why didn't you run?"

"I couldn't leave then. I hadn't finished the puzzle. I still haven't. I hadn't worked Moriarty out."

With a snarl, John shook Sherlock. "Damn working Moriarty out! Do you know what would have happened to you if the sniper had pulled that trigger? Work that out, why don't you?"

"The force from the explosion would have killed the three of us," Sherlock responded instantly. His tone was so clinical, so _removed_, that John shoved him backward furiously. The consulting detective eyed John warily. "It doesn't matter, John. It didn't kill us."

"Pity it didn't get Moriarty. Then I wouldn't have to worry about that happening again."

Immediately, Sherlock shook his head. "I still haven't worked him out."

John's eyes darkened. "He tied a bomb to me, Sherlock. He would have let both of us die. Sorry if I don't care whether you ever puzzle Moriarty out."

For the first time since that night by the pool, something almost human flickered through Sherlock's pale eyes. "Do you want me to do something?"

John frowned. "Do something? What do you mean?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Make tea? Buy milk?"

Quickly, John bit back a giggle. Let's make this a national holiday! _Sherlock Holmes is apologizing to me. Well, almost. _"No, thank you, that's fine—well, wait." As Sherlock's offer sank in, John changed his mind. Sherlock turned back from the doorway with a curious frown. "Just promise me this one thing. One thing, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

John's jaw squared off. "The next time I tell you to run, you _run_."

For a long moment, Sherlock studied John's shivering form inquiringly. Then, without reply, he padded out of John's bedroom and back down the stairs.


	4. Four: The Cage

John's senses still stung from the barrage of sound and light that had only just ended. He was trapped in the Baskerville lab, but he tried not to think about that. He'd been holed up in much more frightening places before—that bunker in Kabul, where the insurgent had nearly blown his head off—

A sudden sound made John's heart leap to his throat. He darted around the room, dragging sheet after sheet off of empty cages, until something leapt in front of him with a shriek. John stumbled away from the monkey with a gasp. _Damn. Hell. Fuck. Calm down, Captain Watson, _he reprimanded himself. _It's just a monkey. It's only a monkey. What would Sherlock say? Be logical, Watson. Be logical._

Still, something or someone else watched John Watson. A tour of duty in enemy territory reminded him not to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. This time, he swiped his security card by the second door, the one that you weren't supposed to go through unless you wanted a cold, to no avail. That disappointing whirr made John's stomach turn. _Think, John. What can you do?_

In an instant, John had his phone out. It rang once…twice… "Where are you? Don't be ridiculous. Pick up….oh, dammit!" John hung up before the call could connect. _Maybe he can't help you after all. That's fine. It's fine. You're a soldier, Captain. Act like it._

"Right," John muttered to himself. With his torch shining light ahead of him, he strode through the laboratory. Nothing—then noise, and John ducked into a crouch and sprinted to the main doors. Before he could swipe his card, a growl sent fear spiraling through him. He whirled around; when a snarl nearly elicited a yelp from him, he slapped a hand over his own mouth. Then he ducked down again and ran as he hadn't run in ages.

_Run—_growls—_run—_claws on tile—_RUN!_—a cage to duck into, a barred door to slam shut behind him and lock, a tiny space to collapse in. Safety.

False security. John almost cried out at the thought. He was back in that godforsaken desert with a bullet through his shoulder and a rifle at his head.

Then his phone rang.

John could barely take deep enough breaths to hiss, "It's in here. It's in here with me!"  
><em><br>"Where are you?" _Sherlock demanded, all cool and clinical. John shook his head, even though the other man couldn't see him.

"Get me out, Sherlock. You've got to get me out!" John paused for breath. "The big lab, the lab we first saw—" Another growl dragged a yelp from John's throat. He covered his mouth again.

"John." Sherlock paused, then said again worriedly, "John?"

"Now, Sherlock! Please." John's voice cracked as it hadn't since primary school. He was going to die, he realized. The hound was going to kill him, just as the man in the desert had tried to do; John was going to be torn apart in this godforsaken cage with no way to escape. "Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out. Get me out! You have to get me out! You have to—"

* * *

><p>"John!"<p>

When John launched upright, sobbing without meaning to, a tall figure caught him sharply by the shoulders. Pain lanced through the old scar, and John whimpered, but the man holding his shirtfront maintained his grip. "John, listen to me. Where are you? Tell me where you are." John gaped. The other man shook him hard. "Concentrate, John. Focus! Where are you?"

Terror pumped adrenaline through John's veins. He gazed unseeingly at the ghostly man hovering over him before the words sank in. "Two—Two-two-one-b-Baker Street."

The other man nodded crisply. "Who are you?"

"Doctor John Watson, Captain, British Army."

"And who am I?"

"Sherlock," John breathed. As soon as he said it, the shadows seemed to drain away from his bedroom just as surely as fear disappeared from his veins. A strange wetness covered his cheeks; John rolled away from Sherlock's outstretched hands to scrub off his tears on the sheets. When the consulting detective's eyes followed him, rage shot through John. "Why the hell did you do that, Sherlock? Why? Why did you slip that into my coffee? Why did you let me see those things? I'm not some—some bloody experiment! I'm your flatmate! I'm your—"

"—friend," Sherlock cut in. "I know. I am…I am sorry. I didn't assess all the—the risks before I experimented. I forgot to factor in your tendency toward nightmares. It won't happen again."

"No, it bloody well won't!" John swallowed down bitter bile before he snapped, "Friends don't do that to friends."

Immediately, Sherlock shook his head. "Yes, they do. That's why I've never bothered with one before." He watched John's stony expression for a minute. Then, he added quietly, "I've made tea if you want some. It would slow your heart rate some."

As Sherlock made his way out of John's bedroom, the doctor balled his hands into fists. "Idiot! How can a genius be such an idiot?"

Underneath this, the part of John that was still trapped in that cage pleaded, _"Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out!"_

John struggled with his panting a while longer. Then, with a groan, he stumbled downstairs for some of Sherlock's calming tea.


	5. Five: The Fall

This is the chapter with spoilers for the Fall. Significant chunks of dialogue were lifted from it. I nearly made myself sick from all the angst related to writing this. You have been warned. 

* * *

><p>The moment John realized he'd walked into a trap, his heart fell through his stomach. "Oh, my God," he breathed. Then he ran. "TAXI!"<p>

As he climbed out of the cab beside St. Bart's, John's phone rang. He picked it up without glancing at the name. "Hello?"

"John."

A tiny part of John breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of him kept moving toward the hospital. "Hey, Sherlock! You okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in—"

"Just _do as I ask_!" John's footsteps slowed at the tremble in Sherlock's baritone. "Please," the detective added.

The plea was more than enough cause for John to backpedal. "Where?"

"Stop there!"

John slowed his steps. His flatmate was nowhere to be seen. "Sherlock—"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

_No. That's impossible, _John thought. Then he turned to the hospital roof and nearly dropped his phone. "Oh, God."

"I—I—I can't come down, so we'll—we'll just have to do it like this."

Although John couldn't see Sherlock's face, his friend's uncharacteristic stammer was enough for John to feel Sherlock's strange emotions. "What's going on?"

"An apology." Another shock. Sherlock didn't apologize. Something was wrong, very wrong, with Sherlock, and John was trapped on the ground many storeys beneath him. Everything about this was wrong, wrong, wrong. "It's all true."

The ground rocked beneath John's feet. "What?" he demanded.

"Everything they said about me. I…invented…Moriarty."

John could just barely see the way Sherlock turned his head to glance at something laying on the roof behind him. Instantly, he knew Sherlock was lying to him. _You're looking back because he's there! Moriarty's behind you. See, Sherlock, I can deduce things, too. Why are you lying to me, though? _"Why are you saying this?"

Slowly, Sherlock turned back toward John. It took him a moment to force the words out. "I'm a fake!"

_Stop it— _"Sherlock—"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly—in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

Finally, Sherlock's quavering voice got to John. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met!—you knew all about my sister, right?" There was some way to talk people down from these things, but John was no psychiatrist, he didn't know how—

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could," John countered.

Sherlock made a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sob, that John had never heard from him before. John swallowed back more words, hoping, hoping… Then Sherlock shook his head. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." As John squeezed his eyes shut against all the lies, Sherlock sniffed. "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

Even as he spoke, John kept his eyes shut. "No. No. Stop it now." _What if Sherlock thinks I'm not looking at him and he…_John snapped his eyes open again. Quickly, he strode across the street. _It's not happening. No, no, no._

"No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock's voice cracked through the phone line; John's unoccupied ear even heard the sound echo down from the roof. While Sherlock instructed, "Don't move!" the doctor backed up with one hand held up in surrender.

"All right," John conceded.

From the roof, Sherlock stretched out one spindly arm, as if he could touch John's palm across the distance. "Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock begged. A shiver passed through John when he realized, finally, that Sherlock was crying. "Please, will you do this for me?"

Even though he felt incredibly thick, even though a part of him knew what was coming, John still asked, "Do _what_?"

"This phone call, it's, uh..." Sherlock swallowed, then continued more steadily, "It's my note." When John didn't reply, he elaborated, "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

_A note? A note—no, God, Sherlock, no! Stay where you are, I'm coming up—_John shook his head furiously in refusal of all of it. "Leave a note when?"

"Good-bye, John."

John couldn't stop shaking his head. "No. Don't—"

Sherlock kept the phone to his ear for only a few more seconds. John watched while his flatmate—detective—friend!—threw it aside and spread his arms out wide. _Like he's going to hug someone. Sherlock wouldn't hug someone. Sherlock hates touching. Sherlock hates—_"Stop—_SHERLOCK_!"

Yelling for Sherlock had worked before, when John had shot through the cabbie through the glass at the school building the day after he'd met Sherlock. Yelling for Sherlock would save him now, it had to, it—

_God. He's flying._

_ Falling—_

"Sherlock—Sher—"

_No. No. Nonononono Sherlock NO!_

_ No._

John ran.

Breathe in—_Sherlock—_out—_jumped—_in—_God—_out—_no—_

_ Bam._

* * *

><p>John came to in a sea of pavement. There had been a bike…a bike had hit him…running, running, Sherlock—a case? Sherlock forgot he couldn't run as fast as—<p>

Paramedics. Nurses. A crowd ahead.

_Oh God. Sherlock._

"Sherlock…Sherlock! I'm a doctor. Let me come through. Let me come through, please! No, he's my friend. He's my friend, _please!" He has to have a pulse. Please, Sherlock. Get me out of here. You have to get me out. Breathe, Sherlock, live…_

There was nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

Someone pulled John's hand away from Sherlock's motionless wrist. He sagged against them, whoever they were, because all of a sudden pain flared through his leg as it hadn't in years. Blood splattered everywhere while the paramedics pulled Sherlock onto a stretcher and carried him away from John, but he knew they wouldn't take him into the main hospital. They'd take him down past his lab, down to where Molly worked, where Sherlock left his riding crop, where they kept the—_no, no, God, no. GOD, no. Sherlock!_

_Sherlock!_

"Sherlock, don't!" 

* * *

><p>"John. John! John, wake up now!" a voice above him commanded. "Wake up now, John. JOHN!"<p>

Instantly, John jerked awake with a crazed laugh. "Oh, _God_, Sherlock, you're here, you're—"

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the baritone voice slipped from John's memory. He sat bolt upright in his painfully hard cot, panting, and stared around the unfamiliar room wildly before reality sank in.

_Not 221B Baker Street. The military psych center. Breakdown. Therapist. Leg._

_ Sherlock's gone._

_ God, Sherlock's gone._

John buried his face in his sheets. Sherlock hadn't woken him from the nightmare, no matter how much John believed he had heard his voice. Sherlock never could. He didn't have a pulse. John had checked.

No more cases. No more Cluedo. No more harpoons on the Tube or bullets in the wall. No more 221B Baker Street or bad hats or insinuations about perpetual bachelors.

Just…John. Himself. A basket case.

His therapist's voice rose unbidden in his mind. "_The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it….say it now."_

John swallowed back bile before he rasped, "No, Sherlock. Stay where you are. Don't jump. I believe in you, you amazingly clever genius. I believe in you." He hesitated, then added, "Please stay here. For me. Stay."

His pillow swallowed every word.


	6. And One: Three Years Later

Three years changed a man.

John's limp was back, _had_ been back since the moment his fingers slipped from Sherlock's already stiffening wrist. His night terrors had doubled as well; when John didn't come to in a pool of sweat after a night of being shot in the desert, he watched Sherlock fall again and again until his morning alarm jolted him awake. For three years, he had slept on a cot in the army medical center, despite his therapist's call to find a place of his own. John preferred it this way. When he lived at his work, he had no reason to interact with many people.

No one was interesting enough after Sherlock.

In the beginning, Lestrade had tried calling him. _"We could use your help at the Yard. I know you must have picked something up from Sher—from him." _An apology lay somewhere beneath that request—_I never meant to doubt him, John—_but John ignored it. He wasn't the one Lestrade needed to apologize to.

No cases. No chases. No flashes of brilliance. As John limped from day to grey day, he found himself understanding more than ever why Sherlock had always been so bored. The problem was, John had no way to stop it now. There was no excitement in life. There was just…nothing.

Then came the call, three years later.

John started at the sound of his phone ringing. He nodded an excuse to his patient and limped out into the hallway to take the call. "Hello?"

"John, it's Mrs. Hudson. I need you to come to 221B."

John stiffened. "Mrs. Hudson, I really don't think—"

"John, please. There's something you need to see."

The quaver in Mrs. Hudson's voice sent a cold chill down John's spine. He glanced around him warily before he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'm…I'm…Please come to the flat, John. Please. You have to come to the flat."

_She's afraid. _Without thinking, John took off down the hall. "Right. I'll be there. Stay where you are." As he dashed past the front desk, the receptionist tried to stall him—_"Doctor Watson! You left your cane!"—_but he shrugged them off and rushed down the street after a taxi. John's cane leaned forlornly against the hospital wall, once again forgotten because of a resident of Baker Street.

* * *

><p>When John climbed out of the cab in front of 221B Baker Street, he paused in front of the blue door. He'd been back inside it a few times shortly after Sherlock's d—after Sherlock fell, but after he'd visited Sherlock's grave that one painful day, he couldn't find it in himself to go back anymore. Each time he'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson, she'd assured him that nothing had changed. John couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a curse.<p>

_There's nothing for it, then. In you go, Watson. In you go._

A sea of dust particles greeted John as he swung the door open. He choked down a cough and then a laugh—God forbid!—when a thought rose unbidden in his mind. _Not your housekeeper!_

_ Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Not our housekeeper._

"Mrs. Hudson?"

No response. John frowned. She had sounded so urgent on the phone. Damn her, he'd left a patient to help her! It was just like before, when he'd gotten a call that she'd been shot and really it had just been a trap—

_No. No, no, no. It can't be a trap. There is no one to trap anymore. Why would I be trapped? I'm nothing without Sherlock. He's the one they wanted, and they got him._

"Mrs. Hudson? Are you upstairs? I'm coming up."

As John climbed the first step, something, or rather a lack of something, caught his eye. The middles of the stairs weren't as dusty as the rest of them. 

_Footprints, _John realized. _Someone else has been here. _

Not Mrs. Hudson. The prints were too large. A man, then. An amused voice in the back of John's mind that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock said, _Well done deducing, Doctor. Maybe you're only half an idiot today. _John shoved the thought away impatiently. _Who else has been here? Mrs. Hudson must be in danger. Oh, God, what if someone got her? Not Mrs. Hudson! _

Quickly, John reached for the gun that had waited patiently in his waistband for the past three years. Panic made him take the stairs two at a time. _Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson—_

Through the crack in the door, John could see someone's feet propped up on the couch. _Sherlock's couch. Bloody hell, get off of Sherlock's couch. _On a whim, John called "Police! Open up!" before he shoved the door open and aimed his gun.

Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Ridiculous coat collar flipped up.

"Oh my God—"

John's gun slipped from his numb fingers. He'd never fainted before, but he'd heard it described: the way your hearing was suddenly muffled, the black spots in front of your eyes, and then the sensation of falling underwater…He came to with his face pressed against the cool floor. A pale wrist dangled over the edge of the couch directly above his head. Without thinking, John reached out and pressed his fingers against the tiny blue vein etched against the man's wrist.

A steady beat flickered against John's fingers.

_Oh God. Oh God. How?  
><em>

_"Oh, please, there's one more thing. One more thing! Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…dead! Would you do that just for me? Just stop it! Stop this!"_

_ He heard me. Sherlock heard me. His heart's beating. He wasn't dead before. I made a mistake. We all made a mistake. He wasn't really gone, he was just—_

"John?"

When the baritone voice rumbled his name, John dropped the man's wrist. Before the other man could sit up, John aimed his gun between the other man's pale, tired eyes. "Don't move. I said don't!" he snapped when the dark-haired man slowly sat up.

"John, it's me—"

"Shut up, okay? Just shut up!" John's mind raced. _How can I work out who he is? What's something that only Sherlock would know?_

Then it hit him. John pressed the muzzle of his gun against the man's forehead and asked breathlessly, "The first time we met. The first time we met, in the lab at St. Barts, you knew all about me, right? You worked it out. Tell me how you worked it out, Sherlock. Tell me how you worked it out."

The man on the sofa said rapidly, "When you walked in with Stamford, you said that you trained at St. Barts, so I knew you were a doctor. Your haircut and carriage said military, the tan that ended above your wrists and below your neck said recently back from service, and the way you forgot about your limp when you stood told me it was a psychosomatic effect. The engraving on the back of your phone read "Harry Watson—from Clara XXX." Watson—a relative; gave the phone to you—brother; three kisses from Clara—romantic attachment; expensive phone—wife; the relatively new phone from wife given to you—relationship ended badly. The scuff marks around the plug-in were the kinds that only show up on a drunk man's phone. You were a recently invalided war hero looking for cheap accommodations because your brother—or rather, sister, as you later corrected me—drank too much for your tastes."

For a minute, John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. Then he sprang to his feet. "Where the hell have you been? What was that, Sherlock? I saw you fall, Sherlock! I saw you fall!"

Sherlock returned John's incredulous glare at full-force. "Exactly! You _saw _me fall! John, think. Think about this. Come on, you can't be a complete idiot after being my flatmate for a year and a half. I had to have influenced you somehow. Think. Concentrate. _What did you see_?"

With a snarl, John whirled away. Slowly, his brow furrowed. "I saw…I saw you on the roof of St. Barts. I saw you…I saw…"

_"It's all true. Everything they said about me." Sherlock's voice trembled. "I…invented…Moriarty." …but John knew better because Sherlock glanced backward along the roof, towards where—_

"Moriarty was there!" John's stomach churned at the memory, but he forced himself to speak as clearly and calmly as he could. "Lestrade found him on the roof after you d…fell. He'd shot himself in the head. He must have been watching you when you got on the phone with me!"  
>Sherlock shook his head. "Moriarty <em>was<em> on the roof, but he had already died by the time I phoned you. He had snipers, John. Three of them. One for each of my f…for each person I cared about."

John's eyes snapped open. "Three?"

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. Unless Moriarty's men saw me fall, all three of you would have been shot." Sherlock's voice trembled slightly; John took comfort in the thought that even if the "note" and the fall itself had been lies, Sherlock's strange emotions had not. "What else, John? I expected you to catch some of my hints."

"Oh, well, I'm bloody sorry I was a bit too distracted by you dying!" John whirled on Sherlock again and fought the urge to pummel him. "I was so alone, Sherlock! I was so—you have no idea—my therapist, my limp—and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, all trying to ask me questions, I couldn't—I can't—"

_Bloody hell, Watson, stop it! Stop this. Do not cry in front of Sherlock. You think he came back to see this? Idiot! Do not cry. Do not…_

A sudden motion made John jump to attention. Sherlock held his wrist out in front of John. In answer to the doctor's unasked question, Sherlock prompted, "Take it again."

Gently, John found Sherlock's pulse again. It beat steady and strong against his fingers as if it had never stopped. Sherlock had the decency to look away when John's breath came in jerky gasps.

"I need a case, Sherlock," John finally croaked. "I need a case, something, anything to keep my mind off of what—to get me back on track. Please, Sherlock. I need a case."

Sherlock studied John carefully. "Preferably a three-patch problem?"

A shaky laugh bubbled up in John's throat. "Oh, God, yes, Sherlock. I've been so bored. I've been sounding like you."

"Definitely a three-patch problem, then," Sherlock muttered. "Come on, then. I'd better go explain that I'm not dead to Lestrade."

"It's lucky he kept his job through all this. The press had a field day."

Sherlock snorted. "Luck had nothing to do with it. It was Mycroft."

"Isn't it always?" John muttered. Sherlock stared wordlessly at him before he burst into laughter. John followed him with helpless giggles. It hurt to laugh after so many years of solemnity, but it was a good sort of hurt, like feeling rushing back to a numbed limb. _I missed this, Sherlock. I missed you._

If John kept his fingers on Sherlock's pulse all the way down the stairs of 221B Baker Street, the consulting detective didn't seem to mind. When they reached the front door, John turned to Sherlock. "Ready?" he asked him, as he had asked him years ago before the trial that had thrown everything to hell. _God, it's been so long._

Sherlock's thoughts must have followed the same path. His eyes darkened before he smiled faintly. "Yes."

"It's…well, it's good to have you back, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile widened. "It's good to be back, John."

"Even if I'm going to kill you later when this all sinks in?"

"Of course." With a chuckle, Sherlock pulled open the door and strode out into the sunshine. "It's all a part of the game, and oh, is it good to be back in the game!"

* * *

><p>Note: This chapter is a day late for several reasons, one of them being that I was chasing four rugrats around a one-storey house yesterday and another being that I wanted this chapter to go as well on paper as it did in my mind. While I'm still nervous about what you all will think of it, I'm confident enough to put my theory of what will happen when Sherlock returns in print.<p>

Thank you to all who have favorited, story-alerted, and reviewed. I hope you've enjoyed this story, and I hope to write more _Sherlock_ fanfiction in the future.


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